Shatter
by divoccae
Summary: A short story that takes place after Snape catches Harry in his pensieve. Offers Snape's thoughts and motivations throughout the series, including book 6.


Title: Shatter

Author: divoccae

Spoilers for: Order of the Phoenix, slight spoilers for Half Blood Prince

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

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**Shatter**

Clear your mind, empty yourself of emotions. These were not words meant only for Potter - they were words he told himself constantly when he was alone, with nothing to do but think, and remember. Perhaps Potter thinks now that he's a git because, oh dear, evil James and Sirius were oh-so-cruel to him in their free time, or because his parents fought. The truth of the matter is, it isn't the actions of others that make him so angry. It's the way that he reacted to those events that torment him much in the same way Peeves torments the inhabitants of Hogwarts.

At night, when good students and teachers are sleeping sound in their beds, the memories come to call upon him. Which memories vary - if he's lucky, they will be the small, inconsequential reminders of his own errors and blunders in a classroom under McGonagall's strict and critical eye. This night, he is haunted by more than such childish things.

He would like to curse Potter for his flippant attitude towards another's privacy - what gave him the right to do such a thing? A simple glimpse of the memory Potter experienced was enough to recall his anger for James Potter, and most of all, Lily Evans. Hatred is easy for him to bear - his own parents had hated him, and living with that for the first ten years of life was enough to prepare him for the hatred of hundreds of others. Evans, though, hadn't hated him - she alone of all the other students at Hogwarts had attempted to help him, and how he despised her for that. When her son came to Hogwarts, Snape was too happy to replace the memory of her... kindness... with the fires of hate and loathing in Harry's eyes, which were so much like hers.

And then that damnable brat had seen... and looked at him the way she had...

With a roar of frustration, Snape shoves hundreds of the glass containers from their shelves, listening to the satisfying sound of glass shattering on the cold floor. It isn't enough, though, and he hasn't enough alcohol in his rooms to quench his thirst for retribution.

He knows that a simple wave of his wand will restore the jars and their ingredients to proper order, but the action would be too simple. Too quick - which would mean more time to think, and remember. So he bends down to pick up the glass shards, much like he did as a child, cleaning the messes his father would make in a drunken rage, or the messes his mother made when she was sober and annoyed. The clear glass, though, does not resemble the darker, thicker glass of a beer bottle, nor the flatter, heavier pieces of porcelain plates. No, this is a mess that only he can make, that only he can clean.

The previous year, after outing Lupin's "condition" to the school, Albus had accused Severus of holding on too closely to the past. The truth of the matter is that the past clings to him like a terrified child in the middle of a thunderstorm, and he would gladly be rid of it if he knew how. He's tired of remembering, of regretting.

There are options, of course. Actions that a wizard could take, if one were simply a wizard, and not a spy who must fear the repercussions of every word, every breath. To obliviate could be dangerous - a fact that Lockheart was apt at pointing out, by way of example. There was no way to know how much of his memory would be erased, no way to tell if he destroyed very important memories vital to the Order or the Dark Lord - and a chance that he could forget such basic things as talking, walking, or feeding himself. It was risky, not nearly precise enough for his comfort. Potions, too, are unacceptable. Despite his talent with the subject, potions of the mind are even less precise than wand work - he could daze himself, but the effect would be temporary, with a side effect that would surely cause more embarrassment than relief. The pensieve was such a wonderful solution to the problem - he could place memories within the basin, and forget them for a time. Once, he had tried to leave them for extended periods of time, though, which was where the pensieve's downfall lay. The result had been night terrors, sudden lapses into sleep in the middle of the day that left him feeling no more rested than when he went to bed. He had had no choice but to take the memories back, and though he had suffered migraines for a week afterward, he had been able to rest again.

He doesn't doubt that sleep will be elusive tonight - there will be hours of prowling the halls before he will be exhausted enough to fall asleep, and only a handful of hours between falling asleep and the alarm wailing for him to get up. As much as he may enjoy handing detentions out to the many rule breakers, he would gladly let them all get away with their deeds if only he could make the bothersome recollections disappear. Peace, he is sure, will come with death - a death he fears is decades away.

The remains of the glass jars are slippery, and sharp. In using his hands to pick them up, he cuts himself, hissing as the pain blooms red on his fingers and palms. Those more desperate for death would take advantage of such a thing, etch the road of pain and sorrow on their forearms and let the memories bleed out. To himself, he admits that he is quickly becoming so desperate, and he finds it difficult to simply drop the glass back to the floor. His only aid is the image of the article the Daily Prophet would write - something about catching a student in his memories, and being unable to live with the embarrassment of it. The Prophet would try to make it sound like he was some sort of soft-hearted creature like the incompetent Longbottom, and no doubt would make mention of his muggle father the drunk, and his very talented Pure blood witch mother the abusive. He would much rather live with his students thinking him a naturally spiteful bastard than kill himself so that the Daily Prophet could sell more papers with his death.

No, he decides that he must die in a manner that no one will care about the events that may have shaped his life - he must do something to make Potter forget what he saw, forget that, for a short time, he might have felt sorry for his enemy. For this reason, he knows that the Sorting Hat placed him correctly: Slytherins know how to bide their time, waiting for the right moment to strike. When the time comes, Snape will do whatever he must to ensure Potter's hatred, and his own demise.

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